


Little Miss Hooper

by LunaRS



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After Reichenbach, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Dark, Death, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Killing, Moriarty is Alive, Sad, Serial Killers, lots of blood, tragic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaRS/pseuds/LunaRS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No one ever gets to me...and no one ever will." or will they? Will Molly Hooper win the struggle within? Or will her temptation be her demise? Rated M for extreme violence in later chapters, language, and Major Character Death. Please Read and Comment! I don't suggest this for the faint of heart. FYI I don't do slash pairings so please don't expect any.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. James Moriarty

He gazed at her delicate and lithe neck, wanting to touch, to squeeze his hands wrapped around it; he wanted to strangle her, not for anything in particular she had done, besides being so completely ordinary like the rest of the world, but because he wanted to feel her silky skin bulge slightly between his fingers, warm and soothing, as he gripped tighter and tighter.  
He lusted for the feeling of her body, writhing, and the pain that was sure to come to his hands and arms as she clawed at him in her soon ending struggle for air…

But though her simpleness was monotonous, he only looked, did not touch.  
At the same time as his violent musings, he only wished to graze his fingers across her cheek gently, to grasp her smooth brown hair and breathe in its tropical scent.  
He had a strange attraction to the short and practical coroner.  
This particular emotion confused him; it wasn’t quite lust or even love.  
For all his genius, he could not figure out what it was that pulled him nearer to her.

He strolled into the room and quietly walked behind her, lifting a tendril of her hair and smelling it, closing his eyes and relishing in her scent.  
She whipped around and gasped when she saw his face.  
He grinned.  
The fear in her eyes amused him, making him chuckle.  
“James…Moriarty?” she breathed in her fright and confusion, her brown eyes wide.  
He let his eyes slowly study her from head to toe.  
“Hello, Molly.” Moriarty purred, his face hovering in front of hers; his skin tingled when her breath warmed it.

His hands slid up her arms to her shoulders.  
Moriarty’s eyes lingered on Molly’s lips; he remembered how sweet she tasted.  
He licked his lips, absently.  
‘Oh…Little Miss Hooper…’ he thought.  
“Tell me, where are you hiding Sherlock Holmes?”


	2. "Where's Sherlock?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and James talk...

a/n: A couple people asked me to continue this, even though it was just a Oneshot, and so here ya go! Just a warning, this will be a very, very, dark story. There will be some language and if you can’t handle a lot of blood and some gory violence, then I suggest you do not read this. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it as much as you can!

 

“What?” Molly breathed in confusion. Moriarty grinned.  
“Where are you hiding Sherlock Holmes?” he repeated slowly, the purr of his Irish accent bringing a blush to the coroner’s cheeks.  
“I’m...I’m not hiding Sherlock. He’s dead,” she almost squeaked. She resembled a mouse who had just been pinned down by a cat. “Awww...you’re cute as a button when you’re frightened.” James poked her nose playfully.  
Molly looked positively terrified; she was trembling like a leaf.

“...I believe you, though,” Moriarty admitted. He had studied every feature of her face a thousand times over when they had been dating and he could tell when she was lying; he knew her confusion was genuine. However, when dear Molly said Sherlock was dead, her breathing had quickened and she’d looked down for a moment. “Well, mostly. I know you helped Sherlock fake his death,” he added, watching her closely, his face still hovering over hers. There: a slight flicker in her eyes, a quickening of that sweet breath…

“I-I-”  
“Now, Molly, I can tell when you’re lying,” he started, digging his fingers slowly into the fabric of the lab coat on her shoulders; oh, he wanted so badly to rip the damn thing off and feel her skin against his, to dig his fingernails into her arms and draw blood, scarlet blood...so red…  
“And that makes me VERY ANGRY!” he shouted the last part, earning a squeak from Molly. It tickled his amusement and he resumed his confident and sly grin, loosening his grip on Molly’s shoulders and sliding his hands down to hold hers, gently.

He noticed her blush deepen. She liked that.  
Moriarty, for reasons half unknown to even himself, leaned forward and closed the gap between Molly’s lips and his own.  
She tasted faintly of strawberries, just as he remembered she would. Molly seemed to be swept away by the kiss; Jim mused on what or who she must be thinking of.  
‘Probably Jim from IT...’ he thought, smirking through the kiss. After another moment, he pulled away, rather reluctantly, surprising to him, and ran a finger down her cheek to her lips and let it linger there for a moment.

‘Now, don’t lie to me. Where’s Sherlock?” Moriarty questioned softly.  
Molly hesitated; Moriarty saw Molly stealthily pick up a scalpel.  
“Sherlock is dead,” she started, looking determined and defiant. Jim smiled inwardly but cast a nasty glare to inform her that he knew she was still lying.  
“And so are you!’ Molly exclaimed, attempting to stab James with the scalpel in the heart. Moriarty blocked it expertly, however, and laughed, squeezing her hand until she dropped the tool-gone-weapon.

“I admire your loyalty.” He now knew, from observation, that Sherlock was, in fact, alive, but this timid woman knew nothing about his whereabouts. He shrugged.  
“Okay, fine. So you don’t know where he is. You could have just said so,” Jim said, letting go of Molly. He smiled and began to walk away and stopped in front of the doorway. “I’ll visit again soon, little Miss Hooper. Don’t lie to me again,” he said.  
“Ciao~.” was the last thing Molly heard before she heaved a sigh of relief.

Molly thought it was strange, the way he acted, but she was glad that she really didn’t know where the detective consultant was, and that Moriarty believed her.  
And yet, though Moriarty was gone, her lips still tingled, she still blushed, and her breath hitched once or twice in her throat in a mixture of nerves and adrenaline.  
Shaking her head to dismiss those thoughts, Molly quickly cleaned up, deciding that it would be best to go home and come back refreshed in the morning.

Molly took a cab home and found herself unable to stop thinking about Jim Moriarty, those sweet gestures he used to make…  
‘Stop it, Molly...that’s Jim from IT you’re thinking of.’ she thought, scolding herself inwardly.

The cab pulled in front of her destination. She paid the Cabbie and started towards her flat.  
‘Jim Moriarty is different...’

Molly opened the door to her flat and flipped on the lights, letting her eyes adjust to the light as she cleaned her glasses.  
Once she set her spectacles on the bridge of her nose again, she was met by the sound of her Television turning on. She turned towards her living room and there she saw a tall, dark-haired man sitting on her sofa.  
“What is…” her small voice trailed off. The man turned and peered at her with squinted eyes. Molly gasped.

“Hello, Molly,” the deep and calculating voice of Sherlock Holmes greeted.


	3. "Don't Tell."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a request for Molly...

A/N: Just a warning that updates on this fic will be very sparse so please bear with me and be patient, seeing how I am also writing several other ongoing fics at the same time (don’t ask me why because I don’t know either…)

 

“Sherlock?” Molly said in disbelief. The figure stood and walked up to her and into the light. It was, indeed, Sherlock. Fear, anger, and happiness welled up inside of her.  
“What the bloody hell are you doing in my flat?” she hissed. Sherlock tilted his head slightly, studying her; she felt she’d been studied enough for one day.   
“Why are you so angry?” Sherlock asked.  
“I-I’m not angry...you startled me, that’s all,” she explained. “It’s been two years and you suddenly appear in my flat, watching my Telly,” she added, a bit exasperated.  
“...I’m sorry, Molly,” he apologized, looking a bit like a child who had just been scolded. Molly was taken aback by his apology.  
“I-It’s alright. No real harm done,” she said. “Who else knows of your return?” she asked.  
“Nobody,” Sherlock answered bluntly. “I need...to wait a little longer. I’ve decided to stay here in your flat, you won’t mind will you?” he explained, hesitant at first.  
“N-No, I don’t mind. But what about John? Shouldn’t you go back to living with him in your old flat?” Molly asked. Sherlock’s eye twitched slightly; Molly took that as a sort of weakness, the only weakness she could remember ever having found in the detective.  
“John...he has life. It is probably best that I not disturb that until a sizeable case comes along.” he said, a bit quietly. It was strange for Molly to hear Sherlock Holmes talking with such sympathy for a person, even if they were talking about John; he even spoke softer than usual to Molly, which was even more offsetting to the timid coroner.  
“Don’t tell anyone, please, Molly,” Sherlock asked of the woman standing before him. “Don’t let John, or Lestrade, or even Mrs. Hudson know of my return.”   
“Okay, I promise,” Molly promised, still very curious about why he wouldn’t show himself to his friends; was he frightened? Molly couldn’t imagine Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective, the man she had obsessed over for too many years, could be afraid of anything; but it was obvious that he acted differently towards his friends, almost as if to reassure them that he thought them unordinary and set apart from the strangers of the streets of London.

A small ghosting feeling that she’d forgotten to tell Sherlock something wisped across her mind for a moment before she made her way into her room where she promptly fell asleep.

\--------

Molly woke early the next morning and Sherlock supplied her with his mobile number so that he may contact her if he so wished to. She made a quick breakfast of buttered toast and coffee for herself and her long-staying guest.   
She left her flat a few moments later and waved down a Cab. 

Once she’d arrived at her destination, the street in front of her laboratory was swarmed with bustling people. Molly paid the Cabbie what he was due and sighed at the difficulty before her. She began trying to squeeze through the crowd before she felt someone grab her arm. She was whisked off into an empty alleyway and a hand was pushed over her mouth to keep her from screaming in her surprise.

She was pushed up against the brick wall and the hand drew away from her mouth. Moriarty grinned at her mischievously.   
“Hello, Miss Hooper,” he purred into her ear, making her blush involuntarily.  
“What do you want?!” she hissed in both fear and annoyance.  
“I wanted to see if you were more agreeable today,” he started, his charming Irish accent weaving his words slowly into her ears.

“Where is Sherlock Holmes?” James asked.  
“I-I don’t know!” Molly groaned in her anger; why couldn’t he just leave her alone? Why did she have to deal with so much drama and danger?  
“...I was only testing you, Molly. You don’t need to look so frightened.” He grinned again, studying her face; Molly made sure to show no sign that she knew the location of the detective in question. Jim tightened his grip on her shoulders and leaned her harder into the wall.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Molly--which he didn’t, after watching her closely--it was the fact that she dared to instill those strange and confusing feelings in the pit of his stomach, an emotion he couldn’t quite grasp, but he knew what it was. How dare she. Jim was furious.  
“Let go!” she protested in a hoarse whisper so that no one but him would hear, struggling against his grip.

Moriarty blinked. He lost his train of thought...Ah, yes.  
Sherlock Holmes.   
Molly was at a loss for what to do and a chill shivered through her when James’ smile spread once again on his face before he grew very solemn; she could even see a tinge of fear in those big brown eyes of his; it ultimately made her even more frightened than she already was: if a psychopath had reason to look afraid, then there must be something worth fearing.

Moriarty’s lips lingered above Molly’s before he grinned one last time and backed away.   
“I know Sherlock has made contact with you, Molly. I don’t appreciate you lying to me,” he growled in that sing-song voice of his. Molly was still flustered and a bit dazed when he let go.  
“Goodbye~” Jim practically sang before he walked casually into the busy crowd and was gone from her sight in moments. 

‘This will be a very long day,’ she thought with a heavy sigh, as she cleaned her spectacles.

 

\--------

Molly slept lightly that night, very aware of her hero and idol slumbering in the next room on her sofa.  
In the middle of the night, a thought struck her suddenly.  
‘Why didn’t I tell Sherlock that Jim Moriarty is still alive?’ her body screamed for her to leap from her bed, out of her nice and warm blankets, and tell the detective of the danger; but her heart held her back, telling her that the idea was unwise.   
Her mind argued with her heart.   
‘But Sherlock is in danger if we don’t tell him!’ her mind shouted desperately. Though a heaviness found the pit of Molly’s stomach, and a guilt crept up her spine, her heart still replied with a resounding ‘Don’t tell Sherlock. We can hold out. We can deal with Moriarty ourselves.’  
‘No, I should tell Sherlock,’ Molly thought to herself. 

‘James is the only one who looked at you. Not even Sherlock would do that for you,’ came her heart’s contribution, beating down any need to jump out of her bed.  
‘...But, no...that’s Jim from IT you’re thinking of…’ Molly argued with her heart, rolling over in her bed restlessly.  
‘Jim loves you,’ her heart continued. ‘Wait and see. Don’t tell Sherlock.’   
And thus her heart bound her mind and made no further discussion on the matter within.


	4. Pondering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty makes a decision...

He was having a difficult time keeping Molly out of his thoughts. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t think of anything else and it made him feel weak.  
Moriarty despised that feeling, being weak. He hadn’t the time.   
He was bored again, because he was unable to get any serious work done. He didn't like feeling bored. He was going to have to fix that restless feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Moriarty wanted to feel her hand in his once more, to tear the skin and draw red, red, blood; to feel the bones in her neck crack and shatter when he twisted and squeezed; her body would shudder then go limp, her skin pale and pure; that would be ravishing.   
Moriarty grinned at the thought as he walked, lost in the crowd of rushing, busy-bodied, and irritatingly ordinary people. How could they live so contently with such little and narrow minds, never seeing reality for what it is and everything one can understand from it? He was a stranger among strangers, knowing that no one would remember his face in time to do anything about it. It had been two years, after all, and there was no possibility of anyone other than Sherlock having an able-enough mind to remember every detail of every person he’d ever met; Sherlock was the only man who could ever stand on Jim’s level, and that was rude.

He was a shadow, pitch black; his only imperfections being that in place of darkened eyes, two white slots shone in his search for Mr. Holmes, the only man who was able enough to escape him, and the other being that in the empty place where his cold heart had shriveled up and dislodged itself when he was only just a boy, a new scarlet one had grown, unwilling and fragile; it was all because of Molly; sweet little Molly…  
James had to have her.  
“The Summer Wind came blowin’ in--from across the sea~” Moriarty began to sing quietly as he walked leisurely into a dim alleyway.  
“It lingered there, touch your hair, and walk with me~” His rich tenor voice echoed softly, bouncing off the cold walls. He walked around the corner and stood in the shadows like a predator in wait for his prey. He checked his watch, continuing to hum the melody.   
10:28am. Miss Turner would be here soon, as was her daily routine. Although, she was about to receive an involuntary schedule change. He slipped on some latex gloves as he prepared himself for his new plans. He grinned and resumed the song from where he’d left off.

“...then we strolled that golden sand~ Two sweethearts, and the Summer Wind~”   
He hummed a bit longer, two minutes actually, before he suddenly became perfectly silent and still. Miss Turner, a tall and lithe woman, walked confidently in stilettos that went clip clop, clip clop, against the cold, wet concrete in the alley. Moriarty studied her business clothes and deduced that she was some sort of banker, and an important one at that; not that any of this mattered. Jim was only observing what there was to observe; it was a useful habit of his. She was young and full of life; so beautiful, Jim thought, and so ordinary; he wondered how many ways he could make her face contort in pain…

Miss Turner stepped past him before he reached out and grabbed her arm gently. She gasped and dropped her briefcase. Moriarty smiled and stepped out of the shadows.  
“Hello, I was wondering if you’ve got the time?” James asked, anticipation rising inside of him. Miss Turner smiled politely in return and pulled out her mobile. 

“Ten thirty,” she informed him, her voice scratchy and imperfect. Not at all like he’d imagined.  
Moriarty frowned and suddenly lashed out, wrapping a hand around her neck.   
“Nothing personal, Miss Turner,” he purred, wrapping his other hand around her neck. “Just a little bored, you see.” He grinned at the terror in her eyes as she struggled against his grip. He squeezed until her throat collapsed and he let her slide down the side of the wall, out of hearing and sight of any bystanders, and smiled as he watched her slowly suffocate, only making the pain worse with her panic. 

“Like painted kites, those days and nights - went flyin' by~” he sang on softly, a gentle vibrato gracing his tone as he knelt and pulled a knife with a serrated edge from his suit jacket.  
“The world was new, beneath a blue - umbrella sky~” He conducted a bit of the music, by now playing in his head, with the knife.   
“Then softer than, a piper man - one day it called to you~” He set the edge to the side of her neck.   
‘What exactly is my plan?’ Moriarty thought to himself. ‘How do I intend to make Miss Hooper mine?’   
Miss Turner began to make audible chokes. Jim looked at her with a disgusted grin and slowly, patiently, began to dig the blade into her skin, watching as a waterfall of scarlet blood gushed out of her. The choking grew more adamant. 

“I lost you to the summer wind~”   
What was he going to do if Molly refused him, assuming that he gave up; that would be rare for him to simply give up.  
James jerked the blade further into her neck, relishing in the blood that now sprayed and spattered his suit; he didn’t mind. Well, not too much.

“The autumn wind, and the winter wind - have come and gone and still the days, those lonely days - go on and on~”  
Miss Turner began to convulse, her eyes rolling back in her head and her limbs growing limp as the time went on. Jim ground the blade into her jugular vein, cut through her windpipe, and dug into the bone of her spinal cord. She stopped moving and was pale as pearls. Miss Turner was dead.

“And guess who sighs his lullabies - through nights that never end~” he sang, panting a little. He smoothed his hair. If Molly refused him for far too long, he knew what he would do: he was going to make her red, like roses, covered in her own blood where she would wallow and drown and choke. She had better not refuse him.   
Moriarty pulled out his phone and texted Sebastian Moran.

 

“Bring the car around.” -M

 

“My fickle friend, the Summer Wind~” he finished, wiping his bloodied knife on Miss Turner’s clothes until it was clean. Yes, if Molly wasn’t compliant, she would be his ‘Rose’; the most beautiful one of all.  
“Now, what to do with all this blood?”


	5. Sinfully Delicious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly Hooper investigates for Sherlock

Waking slowly, for it was her day off, Molly laid in bed for a long while, staring lazily at the ceiling as she pondered all the events that had seemingly passed through her.  
What exactly was it that attracted her to Sherlock and Moriarty, two men who were polar opposites, yet nearly intellectually identical? Was it their intellect, or that both had, at one time, looked at her in a pleasing way?  
She covered her face with her pillow.  
‘Well, that’s jolly good of you, Molly; you had to go and start to fall for a serial killer,’ she thought.

Molly kicked her blanket off her body and leaned herself off the bed.  
Waddling to her chest of drawers, she got dressed, did her hair up, put on some make-up before wiping it off again, and left her bedroom to find Sherlock very interestedly studying a bouquet of roses that had evidently been left outside her door. He had dragged the arm chair from the living room to the dining room, where the flowers and their vase had been placed, and he sat with his feet on the cushion, knees high and held against his chest, as he leaned close to the bouquet.

“Molly, you don’t have a boyfriend,” Sherlock said bluntly.  
“Um...no,” Molly replied, confused.  
“But, obviously, these roses are for you,” Sherlock continued, never looking up.  
“When did these come?” Molly asked.  
“Ten minutes ago.”  
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Molly questioned.  
“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said, finally looking up at her, looking a bit like a child.

“Well, thank you, Sherlock,” Molly started, a tinge of a blush touching her cheeks.  
“Was there a note?” she asked a bit more timidly, reaching out to take a rose in hand and breathe in its perfume.  
“No--don’t touch them,” the detective interrupted himself, looking back down.  
Molly’s hand froze in front of a crimson bud obediently.  
“They’re drenched in blood,” he explained vaguely.  
Molly stared at the bouquet and withdrew her hand slowly, a shudder running through her; suddenly, she had some recollection about who the sender could most certainly have been.

“Who sent these? Do you know?” Sherlock questioned, looking up again to study Molly’s face.  
“You just said I don’t have a boyfrie--”  
“Obviously, you have found someone of a particular interest to you, judging by the way you’ve done your hair up and chosen your clothes the past few days--those things may very well have been subconsciously carried out, showing that you have no knowledge of your next meeting him--and you’ve applied make-up and then wiped it off, remembering that you have no reason to go out today and perchance run into him. That is to say you admire someone, and he obviously has shown you some sort of tangible affection, so tell me: who did these roses come from?” Sherlock’s cool and calculating voice kept calm and carried on as he looked her in the eye and watched her for any revealing reactions.

“I don’t know…” Molly answered absently, still not accustomed to Sherlock’s analyses after being apart from him for two years; in Molly’s mind, she really didn’t know who’d sent the roses, though if she was asked to, she could probably guess. Anyways, she was tired of answering questions.  
One moment longer and Sherlock relented his gaze, looking back down and dipping a cotton swab in the blood that had begun to pool on some of the roses’ leaves.

“Take this to the lab,” Sherlock began, handing Molly her phone and the cotton swab that he had by now carefully placed in a plastic bag for her.   
“Sherlock, it’s my day off,” Molly protested, shoving her phone in her denim pocket absently.  
“Well, I can’t go to the lab, can I?” Sherlock said, a slight air of sarcasm in his tone. Molly sighed and turned towards the door of her flat, slipping on her shoes and grabbing her purse before leaving while Sherlock mumbled hypotheses and analyses to himself.

\--------

Molly used a portion of the blood to run a DNA test, to identify the person to whom the blood belonged in, and then used the remainder of the blood she had to run tests for diseases and possible poisons or toxins that may have been injected into the person.

The computer let out a bing! and Molly made her way over to it, lifting her goggles.  
The DNA test was complete, and it seemed that the blood belonged to a young woman named Bethany Turner.  
Suddenly her mobile buzzed in her pocket.  
Pulling it out, she saw she’d received a text from someone.

Blood?-SH

Molly rolled her eyes; Sherlock must have entered his number into her phone before he’d handed it to her. She made her reply.

Bethany Turner.-Hooper

A few moments later, her mobile buzzed again before Molly could set it down.

Missing. Bank Clerk. Go look for her.-SH

What?-Hooper

Find her.-SH

How?-Hooper

Lived on Barnes st. Start there.-SH

Molly could almost hear his demeaning tone in the messages.

Fine.-Hooper

Molly sighed and slid her mobile back into her pocket, cleaned up the chemicals and samples she’d been using, as well the equipment she’d required, and grabbed her purse and left the lab.

\--------

Once on Barnes street, Molly scoured the place and its alleyways until she found traces of blood in a corner, underneath a small-grated balcony. With further examination, and sample-taking, she found a wall that had been spattered with blood. She took a photograph with her phone and sent it to Sherlock.  
Buzz.

Body?-SH

I don’t know.-Hooper

More blood?-SH

Molly sent him a photo of the blood on the ground.

Is there a flat above you with a balcony?-SH

Molly looked up and remembered the small-grated balcony.

Yes.-Hooper

Body on the balcony. Find it.-SH

Molly saw a ladder to the balcony above her and climbed up without a moment’s hesitation.  
‘I suppose this must have been what John felt like, working with Sherlock,’ Molly thought as she made it to the balcony.

There was indeed a body of a young woman lying there, pale and cold, brown eyes still opened wide in what must have been shock; her neck had been partially cut through and a part of the spine was visible, jutting through the hole and caked with blood.

Dead bodies, however, were no horror to the timid coroner and she promptly photographed the poor girl for Sherlock.  
Buzz.

Check ID.-SH

Molly did as she was told and the ID read, “Bethany M. Turner.”

Bethany Turner.-Hooper

Call Lestrade.-SH

She dialed Lestrade’s number, for she had memorized it, and waited for him to answer.  
By now, Molly knew exactly who had killed the poor woman; though this scene was much more violent than they had been previously, everything in the style was the same: clues left behind, glaringly obvious and purposeful mistakes for the right people to find; it all pointed towards Moriarty.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” the voice of the inspector started, drawing Molly out of her thoughts.  
“Hello Greg, it’s Molly,” she replied.  
“Are you okay? Did something happen?” he asked worriedly.  
“No I’m okay, if a little bit shaken. I’ve found a body,” Molly explained.  
“Where?”   
“In the alley on Barnes street. Her neck has been cut two...two thirds of the way through, it looks like--don’t worry, I haven’t touched much of anything,” she added.  
“On my way. Stay put.”  
He hung up.

Molly looked at the body again and shuddered.  
“How can I think fondly of a man who can do something like this?”  
Then something struck her. If Sherlock had taken the liberty to insert his mobile number into her phone, Moriarty could have easily done the same.  
Leaning against the wall of the apartment that the balcony belonged to, Molly searched through her contacts and just as she’d thought, there were two new entries: SH and M.

Before she could open the contact, her phone buzzed and she looked to see that another text message had been gotten by her.

Very good, little Miss Hooper. You found Miss Turner.-M

Molly looked wildly around, suddenly aware of her being watched. After finding no one around, she texted her reply with sickened determination.

East Moon. 8pm.-Hooper

She was surprised at herself and her audacity to order the psychopath to do anything; but what was even more startling was Moriarty’s reply:

As you wish.-M

‘What has gotten into you?’ Molly thought to herself. ‘What exactly are you hoping to achieve?’  
But that was just it. She didn’t know what she was expecting. What exactly was she going to do against the Irish madman?  
Grow to be as nihilistic as the villain and join him in his conquests; betray Sherlock; or let her stunning positivity and lust for right overpower her and try to persuade herself to kill him? Or she could report him...a fat lot of good that would do.

“We’ll talk,” Molly said quietly, shortly after Lestrade had come with his men.

\--------

Molly had answered all of Lestrade’s questions and even told him of the bouquet that had arrived at her flat; excluding, of course the other thing that had arrived there. But, against her meager protests, Lestrade insisted on driving her home to her flat so he might acquire the roses, seeing as how they were now evidence, and so that miss Hooper wouldn’t have to pay for a cab ride home.

Hide, Lestrade is coming for the flowers. It couldn’t be   
helped.-Hooper

She warned Sherlock and hoped he was around his mobile to read the text.

Once they arrived at Molly’s flat, she and Lestrade walked in only to find the bouquet in the vase on the dining room table and everything else all in its rightful place; most importantly: no Sherlock. Molly inwardly heaved a sigh of relief.  
Lestrade took the vase of roses and said, before leaving, “if you need anything, call.”  
He was gone.  
But...where was Sherlock?


	6. Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly has dinner with the killer

“Sherlock?” Molly looked around. The detective was nowhere to be seen. Not wanting to raise her voice with the name of the detective, she walked about her flat in search of him; she even looked around on the roof, but he was not to be found.  
With a sigh, Molly walked back into her flat and plopped down on her sofa.  
‘Sherlock can take care of himself; after all, he survived Moriarty,’ she thought before remembering that she had his number.

Pulling out her mobile, she texted him, hoping he’d be kind enough to answer.

Where are you?-Hooper

Only a moment passed before her phone buzzed with another message.

Where’s Sherlock?-M

Molly rolled her eyes, seeing as how the message was from Moriarty. She was growing tired of that question.

I don’t know.-Hooper

She texted her reply in annoyance. Molly laid down on her couch and awaited anxiously for Sherlock to send a reply.

Walking.-SH

Where?-Hooper

Watching John.-SH

What?-Hooper

‘Stalking John?! That’s where he’d gone? He is such a child!’ she thought angrily, a sudden and unexpected wave of selfishness

Why?-Hooper

Did you like the flowers I sent you?-M

Fuck you.-Hooper

Molly texted Moriarty in annoyance, blinded by her rage against Sherlock’s childishness. After a moment, she realized just what she’d texted to Jim. Her face coloured and she could hardly breathe. She was astonished at her bad manners.  
‘I’ve gone ‘round the bend...’ she thought, closing her eyes and rubbing her face. Her phone buzzed twice and she didn’t move for a moment.

Molly finally peeked at her mobile and saw that she’d received a text from each.  
She opened Sherlock’s first.

Bored.-SH

“Of course you were,” Molly muttered begrudgingly at the mobile.  
Summing up her courage, she opened the text from James.

:).-M

Molly, startled by the lax reply from the serial killer, laughed--she hadn’t been quite sure whether he was going to be angry at her or ignore her textual outburst, but what she hadn’t expected was a smiley emoticon to be used by him, ever.

Then the thought struck her that she ought to apologize for her rude conduct.  
“But he’s a serial killer,” she argued aloud. “...Even so,” she continued, “if I am to hold myself to be better than a killer, I should apologize for my bad manners.”  
Thus her mind was made up.  
(No she wouldn’t! It was stupid idea!)  
...Yes, she would apologize.  
(But)-Shut up; she’s doing it already!  
And so she was, already typing out: 

Sorry.-Hooper

See you tonight. Ciao, bella.-M

Molly set her phone down and shuddered. What a strange day it had been; the stress of it all was getting to her.

Be careful.-Hooper

She texted Sherlock, grabbing a pillow off the couch and laying it on her face. Her phone buzzed again with Sherlock’s reply, but she didn’t look.  
Slowly, she dozed off in that peculiar position on the couch.

\--------

7:59 P.M.  
Molly was sitting at a table in the corner of the East Moon restaurant, not terribly dressed up, but not casual either. She was wearing a bit of makeup, but nothing over-the-top, and she had on a formal red dress, her hair cascading in soft curls onto her shoulders.  
Somehow after Sherlock had returned, she’d managed to evade his questions and analytical calculations; he had, however, seemed very distracted, but then again, Molly was too.  
She felt bad for ignoring him…  
“Hello, Molly~” Jim Moriarty’s voice purred its Irish accent behind her, sending chills down her spine.  
Molly glanced at the clock.  
8:01 P.M.  
“You’re late,” Molly said, a little more quietly than she would have liked. Jim sat down in his seat and dismissed the handsome, but intense-looking man who’d followed him in.   
Jim looked nice in his new blue westwood suit, his hair slicked back dashingly, and his figure leaving nothing to be desired. Molly’s face began to colour and her eyes widened.  
“Oh, you’ll have to forgive me,” Moriarty flashed a mocking pout. “I had a bit of unexpected work today.”  
He sat with his elbows on the table and rested his head on his hands, staring at her with that chilling grin of his.   
Molly struggled to hold his gaze, feeling as though she were a mouse and he was cat with those big brown eyes, unblinking, and leaving no room for mistakes, or else he’d catch her and eat her up.  
“So, tell me, where’s--”  
“Oh, I don’t know!” Molly snapped, clenching her hands into fists. Jim smiled again and nodded to a waitress nearby.  
“You see,” he began, “I can’t believe you.”  
The waitress walked over to their table and began to take their orders; Moriarty took it upon himself to order Molly’s food as well.  
“Liǎng gè chéngsè jī hé liǎng gè cǎoméi Ramune,” he said in what sounded like perfect Chinese. The waitress was startled, but quickly wrote down the order and scurried off to get the drinks.

"I already know you helped preserve him. So I know he couldn't have actually been able to hold himself back from contacting you, and he hasn't contacted John." He leaned closer to her across the table. "You're more than one person's weakness," he whispered.

Molly was confused. She was flattered that she had been the first person Sherlock had revealed himself to, even if it was because he was too afraid of shaking up John's new life, but what was confusing to the timid coroner was what Moriarty seemed to be implying.   
'That suggests that I'm Jim's weakness as well...' Her brain worked on deciphering his meaning. Maybe she was reading too far into it.

Moriarty leaned back as the waitress returned with the drinks, which turned out to be strawberry Japanese soda.  
Molly wasn’t surprised that he’d discovered her favorite flavor--when they had dated, she had found it to be his favorite flavor as well.

Taking a sip, under Jim’s watchful gaze, the strawberry tang and sweetness burst in an explosion of flavor in her mouth and she couldn’t help but smile.  
She swallowed, and then anxiety burbled in her stomach.  
Why exactly had she asked him to dinner? What was she going to do?

“Why...why did you kill Bethany Turner?”  
James smiled and looked distant.  
“Ah, miss Turner…” he began in a tone that seemed to hold triumph, pride, and glee. “I was bored,” he shrugged finally.

Their food arrived, and amidst the aroma of chow mein and orange chicken, Molly could not help but study Jim’s face; killer or not, he was rather handsome, and his accent was very charming indeed.  
The two of them sat in silence for a moment, staring at each other, staring at their food.

Moriarty looked a little confused, if not a little angry, when he looked at Molly, his eyes wide and mouth opened slightly as if he were in deep thought.  
Molly, determined not to notice, began to eat her food.

“Did I frighten you?” James asked, slowly looking up at her as if something had dazed him.  
Molly shrugged, but didn’t look at him.  
“Oh, don’t be vague, Molly. Your simplicity already leaves nothing to be discovered,” he said in an annoyed tone, rolling his eyes.  
“Dead bodies do not frighten me, Jim. But the blood-drenched roses did startle me,” Molly answered in a reserved way.

“It must be so boooooring, being so simple,” James continued.  
“I can’t help my simplicity.”  
“No,” he calmed down, looking around leisurely. “Of course you can’t.”  
“What is one of your regular days like?” he asked curiously, looking back at her.  
“...I wake up, get dressed,” Molly answered thoughtfully. “And...I go to work.”  
Moriarty sighed. “How boring!” he hissed angrily.

Molly blushed and looked down. Why was he so angry?  
The rest of the dinner was kept in silence until both had finished their food and Jim had paid for the meal.  
They walked outside, and once a cab had been secured for Molly, Moriarty suddenly pulled her close and kissed her, catching her off guard.  
For a few long moments they stayed like that, eyes closed, bodies pressed together, and their mouths only parting for air every few seconds; Molly was caught up in the passion of it all, and then James pulled away, smiled, and watched Molly leave, whispering to himself, “Sherlock...or Molly?”

\--------

Molly walked into her flat feeling as if she were floating.  
“What’s your boyfriend’s name?” Sherlock’s deep voice graced her ears; her heart did not, however, leap at his presence. She kicked off her heels and, walking into the living room, pulled up a chair next to Sherlock, who was lying on the couch in his pajamas and bathrobe, staring at the ceiling.

“He’s not my boyfriend, Sherlock,” she said softly. The detective glanced at her and then resumed his watch of the ceiling.  
“Well, someone has gone to all the trouble of making you blush,” he mumbled, but to Molly’s surprise, he made no further comments and remained silent. It was obvious that something was bothering him, and Molly felt as if she were going to burst--she was both inclined to accept Moriarty and his seeming affections and to push him away because he was a killer.  
Such a simple decision had become so complicated.

“What’s the matter, Sherlock?” Molly asked, struggling to make herself want to hear his problems. She felt so apathetic for some reason, as if some of Jim’s nihilism onto hers.  
“Nothing’s the matter,” Sherlock almost growled.  
“Well, I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well tell me what’s wrong,” Molly almost snapped, crossing her legs; she was ashamed for the way she was acting, all haughty and loathing, but she didn’t know how to stop herself.

A little grin curled in the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.  
“Alright, Molly,” he said, shifting where he lay.  
“Seeing John...I want to show him that I never died, and tell him why I had to lie to him, but I don’t want to ruin his new life. If I told him now…” his voice trailed off and for the second time in Molly’s life, she saw how helpless he looked.

“I could tell Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft, but I...I think John would hate me.”  
Molly was overcome with guilt; guilt for not telling Sherlock about Moriarty and guilt for feeling selfish when Sherlock had gone to watch John in secret.  
She hadn’t known how much faking his death would weigh on his emotions.

“You need to go back and show yourself to John,” Molly said decidedly.   
“Molly, I--”  
“You need to go back. And it’s not for anything you’ve done; I’m not angry, not that it would really matter,” Molly said frantically, panic beginning to rise in her chest. She was choosing where to plant her loyalties, finally.  
“...Why?” Sherlock asked after a moment.  
“Because Jim Moriarty is alive!” she blurted out.

Sherlock first looked confused, then frightened, and then determined.  
“How long have you known?” He jumped up from the couch to look down at her.  
“He’s been trying to make me tell him where you were for the past week, but I never told him,” Molly explained, feeling ashamed of herself for not telling him sooner. It was as if Molly had been standing over a line, one foot in Sherlock’s half of the world and the other in Moriarty’s, just now placing both feet on Sherlock’s half; but what she did not know was that although she was on the side of good, the tip of her foot still remained in Moriarty’s half.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” Molly was so exasperated from the events of the day that she began to cry and she couldn’t keep herself from doing so.  
She covered her face.  
“Oh, Molly, calm down.” Sherlock tried awkwardly to soothe her, crouching in front of her.

In her emotional state, she threw her arms around his neck and cried into his shirt without hesitation.  
Surprisingly, Sherlock didn’t retreat and instead began to rub her back, looking for all the world as if he hadn’t the slightest idea of what he should do next.

“That would explain the roses and the murder…” he mumbled to himself.  
Molly was terribly confused. How could she have fallen for Moriarty?  
“Did he hurt you?” Sherlock asked.  
“No,” she sniffed. “Only harassed.” 

After Molly calmed down, Sherlock laid back down on the couch, staring intently at the ceiling.  
“Do...you want to talk, Molly?” Sherlock asked gingerly, without looking at her.  
Molly was flattered, but she replied with a, “no. I’ll go with you tomorrow to see John.”  
And with that, Molly walked into her room, changed into her pajamas, and laid down, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion and a ghost of a kiss lingering on her lips.


	7. Be Careful...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reveals himself to John.

A/N: Hey, sorry it’s been a while since I updated this! I haven’t seen the next episode of Sherlock yet so I’m sorry if I get this whole ‘revealing of Sherlock’ thing wrong! Anyways, thanks for reading and enjoy! (Pssst! please don't give me spoilers either!)

“Hello Molly,” John said with a kind smile, showing her into his apartment, which was still 221 B on Baker Street. Molly nervously smiled back and walked through the doorway, clutching her purse anxiously; today--this moment actually--was when Sherlock was determined to reveal himself to everyone in London, John first and foremost. They made their way upstairs and into the sitting room.

“Are you well?” John asked, “You said this was urgent?”  
“Um, yes I’m well, thank you. To get right to it, I wanted to ask you not to...hate me for this…” she sighed inwardly. John’s brow furrowed. “Hate you? Why would I--”  
“He made me swear not to tell you, you see, and I didn’t expect him to come back so soon! Just...don’t hold me in any lower regard.” Molly interrupted, hearing Sherlock walking up the stairs quietly. 

“Molly I don’t...who? I don’t think I understand.” John continued, squinting his eyes and tilting his head. The topmost step creaked and the two of them, one in wonder and the other in pensive silence, turned to greet the tall and dark visitor.

Sherlock, instead of narrowing his eyes in his usual manner, looked at John with brightness in his dark-rimmed blue eyes. John’s jaw fell and he began to stumble backwards.  
“Hello, John.” his deep voice made Molly’s heart pound.

“Sher..”John’s voice came in a whisper. He swallowed hard and kept his gaze focused on the detective. “Sherlock…” His voice cracked involuntarily.  
John hesitantly stepped forward, making his way to Sherlock. He poked the detective’s stomach gingerly.

“Bloody hell, you’re real…” his voice wavered again.  
Molly knew how hard it must have been for John to suddenly see Sherlock but it made her smile in spite of herself.  
Sherlock remained silent, looking very content and a little relieved, narrowing his eyes at Molly when he thought she wasn’t looking.

\--------

Sherlock stood, gazing out the window of the flat in the sitting room just as he used to to just two years before. John was still in shock and Molly was in the kitchen trying to calm a very spooked Mrs. Hudson.

After another long moment of silence, Sherlock turned and faced John.  
“I’m sorry John. I’m sorry for all the pain I might have--”  
“Might have?” John laughed bitterly, turning towards the detective. “No, Sherlock. You have caused pain! You have...had destroyed me and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and Molly--or at least I thought--when you jumped off that bloody hospital!”  
Sherlock closed his mouth and watched John pace in his anger; he fidgeted where he stood but held the doctor’s angry gaze.

“Do you understand how much it hurt to watch you,” John began shaking his head, “...watch you...jump? To watch you land on the pavement? To bury you?”  
Molly and Mrs. Hudson walked into the sitting room.  
“I do, John.” Sherlock said.  
“Do you really?!” John shouted, grabbing the skull off the mantlepiece. “I don’t think you fucking understand!” he threw the skull at Sherlock who dodged just in time.   
“John, stop!” Sherlock protested, running towards the doctor. Just as he did, John lunged for him and punched him in the jaw. Sherlock took a step back in astonishment and promptly rolled his eyes.  
“Oh dear!” Mrs. Hudson waved her arms about in worry.

“Oh for goodness’ sake!” Molly cried out. “Stop it! Sherlock only did what he had to, John!”  
The room was silent for a moment, the air heavy with the anticipation of the drama that was sure to come.

“...Why?” John breathed. “Why, Sherlock?”  
“I...I had help from Molly--”  
“I don’t care how you did it, Sherlock,” John interrupted. “I just want to know why?”  
Sherlock looked around, searching for the right words. 

“Because if I didn’t, you, Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson would...have died. Moriarty had men stationed around all of you to make sure that I jumped off that rooftop. He wanted it to end in blood and he didn’t care if his was mixed in as well; he only wanted me dead for certain. The game was over.” Sherlock explained, walking around the room, unable to make eye contact with John.

“Why did you try to convince me that you were a fake?” John asked quietly.  
“I couldn’t have you looking for me. I had to distinguish every possibility for the hope that I might still be alive.”  
Silence again.

“I didn’t want to ruin your life--”  
“So you decided to show yourself to Molly but not me.” John interrupted coldly, turning to Molly. “And you didn’t think to tell me? You didn’t think that maybe I would have--”  
“Stop it, John!” Sherlock rose his voice. “Don’t blame Molly. None of this is her fault.”

John closed his eyes and shook his head. “Why…” he took a deep breath. “Why now?”  
“Because he’s still alive.” Sherlock answered calmly but sternly. Molly’s heart sank; nothing was going the way it was supposed to--but with Sherlock and John, what else was to be expected?

John let out a sigh and without a word embraced Sherlock who just as quietly let him.  
Molly heaved an inward sigh of relief.  
“Ohh...Well...I’d better put the kettle on…” Mrs. Hudson said distantly, walking off towards the kitchen.

\--------

Molly and John brought the few things Sherlock had brought into the flat and John paid for a cab to take her home after he’d apologized for his earlier conduct. Molly, for the first part of the drive home, thought deeply on Sherlock; his mannerisms, his new brightened smile...his attractiveness…  
All this went through her mind before another face appeared. But why should she think of Moriarty? He was handsome to be sure, he was deviously clever but he was a killer, a murderer who did not deserve her fancy of attention--but like in almost all other things, he would get what he wanted.

For the latter part of the drive, she sat, staring out the window, and thought angry thoughts of the madman of her dreams.

\--------

One week later and Sherlock had of course found a murder case and of course it was interesting and of course John, Sherlock, and Molly knew who’d committed the crime. Lestrade was over the shock of Sherlock’s miraculous return and Sherlock was somehow bestowed with permission from the commissioner to help as a consulting detective once again; Molly didn’t quite know how he managed it. 

So there she stood, another two weeks gone by, inspecting the latest body from the latest case of the latest wild goose chase that Moriarty had decided the throw their way. Molly was beginning to wonder when the villain would show his face. He’d been around so much, Molly was reluctant to say that she’d almost grown used to his presence.  
Her mobile vibrated on the counter. She sighed and took off her bloodied gloves to pick up the phone and look at the text message she’d just received.

I know.-SH

Molly stared at the message, confused.

Know what?-Hooper

Five or six seconds later, the mobile buzzed again.

Your feelings for Moriarty.-SH

Molly froze. 

It’s simple chemistry. But he’s only using you.-SH

How could Sherlock know if she didn’t know herself?

Be careful.-SH

She was touched that he’d thought it necessary to warn her but she still didn’t see any danger in her affection for Moriarty. She knew it was wrong but she couldn’t help it; she was still, however, determined to refuse him for as long as she possibly could.

Thank you, Sherlock.-Hooper

\--------

‘Maybe I’ll move to the country...get away from everything...’ Molly thought to herself for the thousandth time in her life but she knew she’d never do it; she was too attached to Sherlock to ever leave. Pining after him was all she had left. 

She walked into her flat, weary. Kicking off her shoes and dropping her purse beside them, she wobbled her way to the sofa and laid down, closing her eyes. 

She then abruptly opened them again when she felt something warm against her. She turned her head to see Moriarty laying next to her on the big sofa with an amused smiled.   
“Helloooo~” he practically sang. “How much did you miss me?”

Molly jumped up but hardly had any time to react as someone set a hand on her shoulder and stuck a needle in her neck.


	8. Do I Want You?

Sherlock or Molly…

Moriarty was confused. He understood it was all just chemistry, and even he couldn’t change that. It wasn’t boring, though; in fact, this little weakness of his kept him busy, so he didn’t really mind. But he wasn’t one to like what he couldn’t understand. The whole thing was contradictory.

He was looking down at the unconscious and bound Molly who was slumped on the seat next to him.  
“Ten more minutes, Sebastian,” Moriarty ordered the driver.  
“Yes, sir,” Sebastian replied. The car drove past the turn to Moriarty’s home and the villain resumed his study of Molly.

He could see everything about her from just a couple of moments of gazing at her.  
For some reason, he could hardly stand to look at her anymore after a long minute.  
“Nevermind, take me home,” he instructed, turning to look out the window, imagining for every person they passed outside a death worthy of a filthy beast, for that was exactly what he thought everyone to be...except for Sherlock...he hadn’t decided about Molly yet.

\--------

James sat, leaning forward with his arms resting on his knees as he stared off into the distance.  
Molly began to stir and he flicked his eyes over to the sofa where she lay.  
“James…” she sighed, eyes still closed. His eyes widened and he sat up straight, a smile crawling across his face.  
“What are you dreaming about, Molly-kins?” he asked softly.  
Her eyes slowly began to open and she sat up and stretched before she could see she wasn’t in her flat anymore; that the events that had passed were not a dream.

“Moriarty?” her voice was barely audible and she looked at him like a mouse looks at a cat.  
“Hello, Molly,” he said, still smiling.  
“Why did you...where am I?” she practically squeaked, looking around.

“At my place. It’s bigger than yours; more comfortable,” he replied, leaning back in his seat.  
She looked around a little.  
“Why am I here?” she asked; she was especially timid in her drowsiness from the drug.

Predictable question after predictable question; Moriarty was getting bored.  
He didn’t answer and looked away.  
“...I can’t...feel the way you want me to, Jim,” Molly said quietly but with a strange confidence.   
Jim looked back at her with a glimmer of wonder in his big brown eyes.

‘Little mousey is clever...not quite as ordinary as I thought...’ He smiled.  
Without answering, Jim stood, walked up to Molly, and placed a kiss on her lips. She almost resisted.

“I can’t imagine why…” he finally whispered, sarcastically, and he sat down next to her, pulling out his mobile.  
It seemed to him that Molly was so frightened of him she’d resolved not to move, or even to breathe; he was too busy listening for her every possible move that he wasn’t paying the slightest amount of attention to the information on his mobile.   
After another long minute of silence, he stood again and began to walk about. He was restless now. Why wasn’t he taking what he wanted? Why wasn’t he doing something?...Why did he care if she was afraid of him or not? It was almost as if he could care.  
“Ta...Take me home...please,” Molly managed to say. He didn’t answer.  
“Take me home,” she said again with surprising bravery. He looked down at her and saw a very unsettling look of trust in her eyes, as if she knew nothing would happen to her. Was he becoming so predictable that even a simpleton like her could read him, even if it was just a fraction of his persona? 

The only thing to ever have made him feel so unsettled was little Carl Powers’ cold dead eyes all those years ago...but only for a moment.  
“Too late, the game’s already started. I just can’t let you leave.” He grinned to himself. “Besides, I want you to play on my team.”  
“I don’t want to play on your team,” she said calmly, staring him straight in the eye. This was getting very interesting and irritating for Jim.

“Because you’re on the side of the Angels,” he spat out the last word, picking up a book from the shelf to his right. He could see that Molly was trembling now.  
“...I don’t want to play this game…” she whispered.  
“Well, you can’t quit now, hon,” Jim said mockingly. He really wanted her now, but he didn’t want to deal with her resistance.

“I would rather die, Jim,” Molly said, trying to look defiant. But there was something that Moriarty could see in the way she held herself, in the way she delivered those words.  
He smiled. She was lying.

"You're lying," he said, relishing in the change of expression on her face.  
'Why Molly?' he kept wondering to himself. 'Why someone so ordinary and so simple?!'  
He clutched the book tight in his hand.  
"Why...would you have an interest in someone like me?" Molly ventured to ask.  
Moriarty shrugged and all fell silent. The questions in his mind would not stop flooding and his confusion and anger grew.  
Suddenly he clutched his head, and glared at Molly before he threw the book at her, watching as its corner made contact with the bridge of her nose. She cried out and covered her face.  
"What--"  
"SHUT UP!" Moriarty yelled, closing his eyes. "STAY OUT OF MY HEAD!"  
For the first time in many long years, he felt out of control. He tore books from their places on the shelves, he threw whatever he could find to the ground while Molly cringed in the corner of his eye.  
And then, as if he hadn't been in control of his own actions in the last few moments, he looked around, slightly confused. His brow was furrowed and he slowly looked at Molly and saw a bit of blood trickle down her face. She looked terrified.

Quietly and gently, Jim leaned forward and placed a hand on Molly's cheek, feeling her tremble under his touch.  
"Sorry," he mumbled, the word feeling strange in his mouth. He gazed at her for a moment longer before he walked off and out of the room, numbly confused.

\--------

On Jim’s way to his room, he told Sebastian, a very tall, stoic, man of a scruffy face and dusty blond hair, to show Molly to her room. Jim then closed the door to his room and pulled out a cigarette from the almost never touched box on his end table. He walked out on the balcony and lit the cigarette.

Closing his eyes, he sucked some of the smoke in and slowly let it escape out his mouth. He was shaking. He'd lost his nerve for a moment and it only made him angrier.

Even then, he didn't know what to do about Molly.

\--------

Sherlock or Molly...

Moriarty got out of the car, straightening his black tie, and waved Sebastian off to park somewhere. Several days had gone by since he’d kidnapped Molly Hooper. Not much had passed between them, but he made sure he treated her well; he had no desire to hurt her again--physically, that is.

He sort of sauntered into the building before his mobile buzzed in his pocket.  
‘Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive! Stayin’ alive!’   
He answered the call.

“What.”  
“Where are you? This is the time we agreed to meet, right?” the man’s voice on the other line came in almost an annoyed whine.  
Jim rolled his eyes.  
“This is the time you agreed to meet me,” Jim retorted. “Shove off, I’m on my way.” he continued, hanging up abruptly and turning the corner to where the man who’d just called him was standing.

“Peek-a-boo~” his voice echoed a bit in the nearly empty room. Jim grinned as he watched the man, namely Jordan Ryles, jump in surprise and whip around.  
“Fuck!” Jordan cursed under his breath.

“No thanks,” Jim said. “You’re not my type.”  
Jordan looked nervous, on edge; he looked as if he was trying to determine whether or not he already regretted this meeting.

Moriarty gave the man a quick once over.  
Jordan was a large man, larger in muscle than in fat, and he had wispy brown hair and light brown eyes. Jim could tell by various bits of this and that--like the ink on the lower left of his chin, a pen lid that had obviously been chewed on out of habit that peeked out in his right hand, and the way he squinted as if he was accustomed to reading or writing constantly--on his suit that he was what he had said he was: some insignificant Privy Councilor; anyone could have told you, reader, that this man was only just newly elected but only Jim Moriarty knew that the man had gotten in some sort of irreversible trouble, and only he knew how to get him out.

“Now,” Moriarty began. “How naughty have you been?”  
Jordan took a deep breath. He explained, much to Moriarty’s boredom, a very cliche story of blackmail, scandal, and the like. 

Eventually, Jim stopped listening and his mind began to wander. At first he was scheming, imagining the look on Sherlock’s face when the game was won...and then Molly popped into his mind. He shook his head and looked around disinterestedly.  
“And so--”  
“Are you finished?” Moriarty interrupted childishly. “The way I see it...you’ve slept with several people of considerable power to whom you’ve pledged your love and when they found out Mr. Right was already married,” he summarized. “they decided to use their power to blackmail you and only your job and your livelihood is at stake. That, and you’ve been selling out the Privy Council’s secrets and your angry bed-partners are using that as leverage.”

Jordan nodded hesitantly.  
“Well, that’s terribly boring. But I do agree,” James smiled, “powerful people are a lot sexier.”  
Jordan smiled nervously in return and then immediately frowned, deciding that mimicking this man was probably not the best idea.  
“...S-so can you help me?”  
“I can help you,” Jim saw the man as more and more disgusting every moment. “Sit down.” He gestured towards a chair.  
He was overwhelmingly bored; dangerously disinterested.

Jordan slowly did as he was told.   
Jim walked up to him, his smile widening.  
“Oh, and just so y’know,” he began, his muscles tensing in preparation. “Your wife’s having an affair.”  
Jordan looked horrified. “What?!” Jim was now standing behind the chair.

“I just thought you might like to know before you die.” and with that, Jim placed his hands on the man’s head and put all his weight into pushing down until Jordan’s head bent back over the back of the chair and his neck snapped.

\--------

The next morning, Jim woke at exactly 7 'o clock as usual but instead of dressing in a comfortable Westwood suit, he decided to wander his house shirtless and in gray sweatpants. He grabbed his newly charged mobile from the end table before leaving his room.  
Needless to say, he was bored--terribly so. Plans, possibilities, and places ran through his mind as he made his way towards the room Molly was staying in.  
Peeking in, he saw Molly sitting up on the bed and facing away from the doorway. Since he'd tapped into her phone, he got every message she sent and received. He leaned away from the crack in the doorway and began going through her messages.

I need things, where are you?-SH

I can't come in today.-Hooper

Why.-SH

A few short moments passed.

Where has he taken you?-SH

Jim grinned. Sherlock was clever, not nearly as boring as before.

I don’t know.-Hooper

Look out the window and tell me what you see.-SH

Sorry, I can’t. Don’t come looking for me.-Hooper

Jim was a bit surprised at this. Things were getting interesting.  
Perhaps, she felt that she could handle him on her own, perhaps she was trying her best, however meager it was, to protect her beloved Sherlock; whatever it was that pushed Molly to secrecy, Moriarty did not know, for he wasn’t looking at her.

Slowly he opened the door all the way to see Molly facing his direction and looking straight at him. There was a small mark on the bridge of her nose where the corner of the book had hit her.  
But by the way she held herself, and from a particular look in her eyes, Jim could see she was confident and could almost even had been said to be content.

“Good morning, Molly-wog~” he practically sang in that surreal Irish tenor of his. He walked up to the bed and fell onto his back against its cushion, next to where she was sitting.  
He looked up at Molly quietly and watched a blush run across her face as she beheld the shirtless man on her bed.

Jim slowly looked away and towards the ceiling.  
“I’m terribly bored…” he began. When Molly didn’t answer, he looked up at her again.  
“I’m sorry for hurting you, Molly,” he spoke quietly, as if he didn’t want her to hear him. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

To his surprise, and before he could say anything else that made him sound human, Molly leaned down and kissed him without a word.  
At first, Jim felt like pulling away and laughing at her; he felt disgusted. But a moment later and his heart seemed to soften. He closed his eyes.

‘Sherlock or Molly...’ he thought absently.

‘...why not both.’


	9. Found

Molly opened her eyes and blinked a few times. It had been two weeks since Moriarty had captured her and Molly still had no idea why. What bothered her, however, was that she didn’t mind.

She sat up, stretching and yawning, and looked around. Moriarty lived in obvious fortunate conditions, him being the only and best criminal consultant.

His smiled still chilled her, though she appreciated it at times; his laugh, which could only belong to a madman, both made her tremble and laugh with him. But the way he looked at her, studying every inch of her, and the look in his eyes when he watched her; those things made her feel content in her captivity.

She spotted Moriarty sitting in an armchair, in the room he’d had her stay in. He was staring at his mobile.

“You sleep a very long time, Molly.” he started, turning to look at her.  
“I’ve only been sleeping for”-she glanced at the digital clock by the bed-”eight hours.”  
She knew quite well that the killer only ever slept for 3-5 hours at most, unless he was exceptionally tired. She’d also noticed that he didn’t eat much.

“How long have you been in here?” Molly asked, feeling suddenly very exposed in her pajamas, which consisted of a T-shirt and black sweat pants.  
Although Molly had told Sherlock not to look for her, she knew he was and subconsciously awaited her rescue, because deep down inside she was afraid of Moriarty, the brilliant serial murderer and criminal consultant; unlike Sherlock, Moriarty was completely unpredictable.

“Just a couple of hours.” he answered idly. He stood, walked to the bed, and plopped down on his back to study her face.  
Molly peered down at him, trying not to look frightened.  
He was unpredictable.

Moriarty looked interested for a moment and then looked towards the ceiling.  
“Do you like it here?” he asked.  
“It’s comfortable.” she answered vaguely.  
“Of course it is,” he replied, sitting up. “Because I’m aaawesooome~”   
He then grew quiet and looked at her again.

He leaned forward and kissed Molly, reaching out a hand to caress her cheek and run his fingers through her silky hair.  
In times like this, Molly felt like he was at his most human, and then his nihilism would take over and he’d become murderously annoyed.

Jim pulled away and smiled.  
“I’m going to kill him, you know,” he began again. “Sherlock can’t be allowed to continue the game.”  
Molly nodded her understanding, still blushing from the kiss.  
“What do you think of that, Hoopy?” he asked, almost bitterly.  
Molly always thought the pet names were silly but this one made her smile.

The thought of Sherlock dying was unpleasant to her but that’s all it was now: unpleasant. It wasn’t horrifying, or terrifying, or even the slightest bit more than just a displeasing thought. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she didn’t care about Sherlock; she didn’t want him to die, but she didn’t feel as if it would matter if he did.

Very distraught, Molly opened her mouth to speak but then Moriarty’s mobile went off.  
He rolled his eyes and waited a moment before answering the call, shrugging apologetically to Molly.  
“Hello?” He looked around like a child who was being told by his mum to do chores. Then a smile twisted onto his face.  
“How close?” he asked, a sudden excitement rising in his voice.

“...Get the car, I’ll be down in a moment.” he said and then hung up.  
“What’s going on?” Molly asked as Jim stood.  
“Sherlock and his pet are coming to save you~” he sang, searching her face for some sort of reaction.

Molly felt overcome with relief, joy, and excitement, but she couldn’t bring herself to smile. At the same time, fear crept into her mind; she had the feeling she wouldn’t be safe without Moriarty, that she would once again be all alone, left to pine after a detective who used to act as though she meant nothing, although he’d begun to say otherwise ever since she helped him fake his death. She desperately did not want to be alone but she was beginning to feel like that was the way it would always be.

As she was thinking this, she’d subconsciously grabbed Jim’s hand. She looked down at it confusedly and she couldn’t stop herself from blurting out, “I don’t want to go...home…” her words slowing as she realized what she was saying.

Moriarty grinned.  
“Oh?” he pulled her close. “You’re contradicting yourself, Molly.”  
He kissed her.

After pulling away, he took out a gun and loaded it, swiftly leaving the room and calling behind him, “I’ll take you away, later~”

Alone in the room, Molly stood a full ten minutes before she sat down on the bed. Everything was silent. Moriarty was gone and she wasn’t sure if he’d come back; she wasn’t sure why she wanted him to come back.

Ten more minutes of silence went by and Molly almost wanted to cry. She felt cold and lonely. Even if Sherlock did save her, he’d be taking her back to her ordinary life and then leaving her to be alone until he needed her. While she felt content with watching him when he was working, and imagining a life with him in her mind, she was beginning to realize that it wasn’t enough for her; not forever.  
Eventually she did begin to cry, reproaching herself for it all the while.

A moment later, she heard someone barge in through the front door. Another moment more and Sherlock and John, followed by Lestrade and Donovan, burst into the room.

Sherlock ran to Molly, looking concerned. Lestrade gave her a worried look before running off with Donovan to look for the killer.  
“Are you alright?” he asked when he saw that she’d been crying. Molly quickly wiped the tears away and nodded, trying to contain her tears.

John began to look her over for injuries, only finding the small fading scar where the book had hit her.   
“How did you get this scar?” John asked. “It looks new.”  
“Moriarty got angry and threw a book at me.” she found that her voice was trembling as she remembered what happened but at the same time she sounded mellow and tired.

‘That’s right, Molly. That’s what that man did to you. How could you still want him after what he did?’ she thought to herself. She could no longer hold in her tears and began to cry. Her emotions were all over the place.

“Take me home,” she managed to say. “Please, Sherlock. But don’t leave me alone…”  
She reached out and was surprised when Sherlock leaned forward and hugged her tight.  
He picked her up and looked at John, slightly confused at what he was doing. 

“Tell Lestrade I’ve taken Molly home.” he said and left the room.

\--------

Molly felt positively exhausted on the way back to her flat, emotionally. She’d stopped crying and had been leaning dejectedly on Sherlock’s shoulder for the whole drive. Once they got out of the police car, however, Molly saw that they were at Sherlock and John’s flat.

“Why are we here?” she asked, hugging Sherlock’s coat around her; he’d given it to her in the cab because she was only wearing pajamas.  
“You said you didn’t want to be alone.” he answered bluntly and led her into the flat. A small smile curled onto her face when he looked away.   
They made it up the stairs inside, Molly slowly following behind, and then she sat down in the sitting room. 

Sherlock stood, looking out the window, completely silent and in deep thought.  
“Why...did you tell me not to look for you?” he asked a few long minutes later, turning to face her.  
“Because I didn’t want you to get hurt.” Molly said. Sherlock just stared at her, obviously deep in thought again. 

“There was no reason to put you in danger.” she added quietly.  
“You are a reason to put me in danger,” Sherlock cut in, sounding a bit annoyed. “You are not nothing, Molly. John is not my only friend and he is not the only person I would willingly put myself in danger for. You were the person who counted when I needed you most...and…” his words slowed as he stared at Molly, who looked shocked to hear all this. “...You have always been there for me.”

Molly’s eyes were open wide; she was surprised that Sherlock could manage to tell her something like that.   
Molly, unable to make any sort of reply at that moment, held out Sherlock’s coat to him, which he took willingly.

“I...I’m sorry, Sherlock.” she managed apologize after a few moments.  
He squinted his eyes at her and sat down in his armchair.  
Molly stood, no longer wanting to talk.

“I'm very tired,” She said.   
“My bedroom is down the hall.” Sherlock replied, staring straight ahead, his hands held together in a prayer-like manner.  
Molly walked down the hall until she found what could only have been Sherlock's room.  
It didn't take her long to settle onto the bed and doze off.

\--------

Molly woke up and looked at the clock by the bed.

It was 2:00pm.

Slowly she made her way out into the sitting room.  
“Where's John?” Molly asked groggily.  
“Out.” Sherlock replied bluntly, staring out the window where he had been standing in thought previously.

Days went by and Sherlock refused to let Molly go home, insisting that if she did not want to be alone, John wouldn’t mind if she stayed longer. Sherlock had made John gather some of Molly’s clothing so that she wouldn’t only have to wear her pajamas. She went to work again, inspecting the bodies of people that Molly was sure Moriarty had killed, and thought hard on her feelings for the murderer.   
Molly wondered why Sherlock wouldn’t let her go home; maybe he thought her capable of suicide--she didn’t know how to feel anymore, so she thought it a probable thing to be cautious of.   
Every day she was beginning to care less and less about anything, even her precious and brilliant detective.

Eventually, two days later, she received a text message from Moriarty just before she fell asleep. 

Do you want me to rescue you?-M

Molly was unable to reply and tried to ignore it. She tried sleeping for hours and eventually gave up, waddling into the sitting room to see Sherlock still awake, though it was well past midnight. She wasn’t surprised.

“Hello Sherlock.” she greeted quietly and sat down on the sofa.   
Sherlock didn’t reply, only flicking his eyes toward her when he heard her enter.   
“What did Moriarty do to you?” he asked after a moment of silence.   
“He only threw the book at me…” Molly hated the tone of her voice that seemed to be defending him. Anger began to rise within her.   
“And what made him angry enough to do that?” Sherlock continued.   
“I told him I couldn’t feel they way he wanted me to feel about him.” she answered.  
Sherlock studied her closely as she talked. 

“...And you were lying.” he said.  
Molly’s brow furrowed. Was that true? Yes of course it was, but how could he have known?   
‘Because he’s Sherlock...’ she thought.  
“I...suppose I was...I don't know anymore.” Molly sighed, rubbing her face.  
“You’re lonely,” Sherlock said. “And so you feel--”  
“Stop it Sherlock,” she interrupted, annoyance lining her tone.  
“You don’t feel neglected when you’re around--”   
“I said stop it! I don't want you to analyze me!" she rose her voice, anger rising as well. “I don’t know what I feel and frankly I’m very confused about the whole thing. I can’t help it. But I know I should feel as though living alone for the rest of my life is preferable to living with a murderer.” All the while she talked, she hadn’t noticed Sherlock moving closer.

Suddenly, the strangest thing happened, something that Molly would never have ever imagined happening: Sherlock, his brow furrowed in interest, sat down next to her and kissed her. It was a soft, almost chaste, kiss and it caught the coroner off guard. She could have almost been certain that it was his first.

Sherlock pulled away, looking slightly sheepish.  
“You don't have to be lonely. This is what you've wanted, correct?”  
Molly was bewildered. Did he pity her? Sherlock never pitied anyone!  
Molly's heart beat quickly and she couldn't help but blush deeply; her impossible dream had come true, but for the wrong reason.  
If it wasn't pity, then why did he do it?  
Molly thought long and hard until she was sure of his motive. 

“Why...did you…?” her words trailed off and she looked at the detective inquisitively.   
“Are you...trying to manipulate me?” She asked. Sherlock looked away and indignance flooded through Molly.  
He dared to play with her feelings, after everything she'd ever done for him?  
“Don't...don't touch me,” she slowly stood, backing away from Sherlock, feeling betrayed and confused. For once in her life, she felt actual resentment towards Sherlock for all the times he manipulated her and used her as the means to his own ends and this time was too much.

The stairs creaked as John walked up and into the sitting room, causing both people to look towards the sound of his arrival. He stopped and looked from Molly to Sherlock.  
“What’s going on?” he asked, his arms full of groceries. Molly silently, and angrily, stalked off to Sherlock’s room and locked the door.

“Molly? Mol--Sherlock, what happened?” John’s voice could be heard through the wall, though a bit muffled.  
Molly laid on the bed, an undeniable feeling of apathy seeping into her.  
She pulled out her mobile and texted Moriarty.

Yes.-Hooper

\--------

Without talking to Sherlock, Molly went to work in the morning, feeling a bit guilty for her behavior towards John; he’d done nothing wrong.  
John rose in the cab with her, meaning to collect some samples of whatnot for Sherlock.  
“I couldn’t get Sherlock to tell me what happened last night,” John attempted to make conversation.  
“He kissed me to get what he wanted.” Molly smiled bitterly.  
John rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.  
“That sounds like Sherlock…”

They arrived at the lab and after John had been supplied with what he needed, Molly called after him, “Don’t worry, I’ll be okay.”  
John looked skeptical but nodded and left.

Molly worked well into the night, full of some sort of dark-purposed energy.  
Unlike some girls, this sudden and quite unnatural rebellion of her previous character was not brought about by the influence of a man--Sherlock had played a part in her decision, but he was not the cause of it, and neither was Moriarty. She was pushed to this decision by utter loneliness and years of timidness and an inability to stand up to manipulation for almost any kind. She was determined not to let her life continue the way it had any longer.

“Well, Molly-mouse,” Moriarty’s surreal voice broke into her thoughts, sending chills down her spine. “I’ve come to take you away.”

Though she could not deny that his sudden appearance startled her, she turned slowly and looked him dead in the eye.

Moriarty rose his brows at her when he saw that Molly was almost fundamentally a different person; something in him became almost uncontrollably interested and wanted to study her closely and carefully, but there was another part of him that almost wanted to destroy the thing responsible for changing her into something that seemed to be fading fast into darkness.

‘She doesn’t look like an Angel anymore,’ he thought.

Molly stared at him hard before saying, “I’ll come with you if you promise me one thing,”  
Moriarty watched her curiously. She was a lot more fun this way.  
“Sure, maybe,” he replied. “If I feel like it…”  
“When you burn Sherlock, don’t hurt John Watson.”  
Jim grinned crookedly at the strangely precise request. He shrugged. “Sure.”

Molly abruptly, and with slight uncertainty, walked out the room, Moriarty following behind his catch of the day: a twisting little fallen Angel, a little mouse who’d found the courage to walk beside the cat.

Moriarty grinned again; one down.


	10. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pretty much the second to last chapter. Thanks for reading!!

[Hey all! Sooooo sorry for taking so incredibly long to update! School takes a lot outta me :P  
So, here’s an extra long and interesting chapter (I hope) for you! Think of it as compensation for being so patient :) As always, please comment! Thanks!]

It might have been because she had been curious, or that she’d wallowed in her own loneliness too long to think clearly, but what was certain, at least to Molly, was that at last, someone wanted her; she didn’t care how dangerous the man who’d bestowed these affections upon her was.

Moriarty never abused her, much to his own surprise; though he was a serial killer, the thought of hurting Molly was something that both enthralled him and inspired abhorrence.

He was gentle and seemed to devote himself to her the way that Sherlock devoted his whole person to an especially puzzling case. That was almost certainly what he thought of her. And if one was to destroy a puzzle before it was finished and figured out, it would instill pure regret that the curiosity for that puzzle would never be satiated.

As long as Moriarty thought her a game, she was safe.

Molly rolled over in the bed and opened her sleep-lined eyes. Moriarty was already awake but had kept his eyes closed while he waited for her to wake.  
Jim’s work schedule was unpredictable. Only a compelling Email or a sudden phone call would draw him away from his house for a few hours.

Jim rolled onto his side and squinted his eyes at Molly.

“Good Morning.” Molly smiled, her voice groggy with sleep. Moriarty smiled back.

“Hello, Molly-wolly.” he gazed at her gently. For both of the waking people, Jim’s apparent transformation into an affable lover was startling to say the least. When he smiled, it was not cruel or with intent to unsettle; it was purely to show his affection. 

But nevertheless, she was still a puzzle, and every moment he neared her ultimate discovery, her life was at risk.

Molly dared to reach out her hand and stroke Jim’s cheek. He nuzzled into her touch and closed his eyes again. Molly grinned.

Moments later Jim leaned forward and kissed Molly before attempting to roll over and get out of bed. He made one roll too much and ended up falling off the bed. Molly giggled.

She thought it was adorable that he became distracted when with her and was not always able to focus.

He stood up and threw her a nasty and threatening glare; she knew to stop laughing at that moment and dismiss the smile off her face. Not everything was perfect.

Molly watched silently as he threw on a blue Westwood suit, wearing a vest instead of his jacket. With a last glance at Molly, and a friendly grin, he left the bedroom. 

If only Molly had the capacity to see further into Jim's motives, she would have seen that he was only fascinated with the idea of her; but if anyone in the world had the ability to see into the soul of a man, they'd have been able to see that, though Jim didn't know it yet, he clutched onto Molly with an affectionate death grip.

\--------

Molly, now dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, walked out of the bedroom, tying her hair up in a ponytail.  
She walked leisurely into the kitchen and ate what she could find for breakfast; Moriarty, like Sherlock, hardly ate and when he did eat, he preferred a restaurant  
.  
Molly bit into a red apple, leaning against the counter and staring out the window above the sink.  
A few moments later Jim walked in, grabbed an apple, took a bite, looked at the fruit, and then threw it away; he was restless.

“Bored?” Molly asked curiously; she wanted to help, if she could.

He finished chewing and turned to her.  
“Thinking.” he said; there was nothing she could do to help. Still, she felt like she should do something.

Molly walked over to him and ran a hand through his hair. He closed his eyes and tilted his head, almost purring like a cat. With that, and feeling confident, Molly kissed his cheek and walked out into the living room.

Moriarty was beginning to realize that he had started to see Molly as less of a pet and more like person; but not completely. It was strange that he almost regarded her near the level of Sherlock but not for her intellect. For once, he didn’t know why.

He walked absently out of the kitchen and sat himself down at the grand piano he had in the living room. Molly looked up and she heard a key being struck on the piano.  
Like Sherlock, Moriarty could play music when he fell in deep thought and like the detective, the criminal was quite accomplished with his instrument.

A slow melody began and Molly knew better not to interrupt or distract him. Closing her eyes, she listened and relished in the idea that she was permitted to listen quietly to the genius who was playing the piano.

Mindlessly, Moriarty played a tune; the melodic brilliancy of what he was playing came naturally to him. But it was simple sounding, not what he was use to playing. After a moment he began to listen to his own music and glared down at the keys when he realized what was going on. 

While playing, he’d subconsciously began composing, and what he was composing, he realized to be an accurate musical representation of Molly Hooper’s personality.

Jim stopped playing for a moment and shuddered.

He had been so fascinated with Molly that she had even made it into his subconscious.

Murderous thoughts ran through his mind.  
He could cut open her back and bend back her ribs, one-by-one; he could skin her alive and hang her on her own flesh…

Moriarty blinked and thought: ‘Not her.’

Suddenly those images that had passed through his mind became, for the first time, distasteful.

He took a deep breath and began to play another melody. He was confused, but most of all bothered.

Molly opened her eyes when he stopped playing. She shot a glance towards him and thought he looked like something was bothering him. So she dared to stand an , albeit timidly, make her way over to him.

She slowly draped her warm arms over his shoulders and nuzzled her face against his neck.

Moriarty was a little surprised, not at Molly but at himself. He, without thought, grasped one of her hands and kissed the palm, the back, each of her fingers, and her wrist, feeling the callouses gained by her profession, and her dedication thereby, discovering a new perspective to the coroner by way of a mere hand.

There was still more to her than he had imagined there could be; he was beginning to discover that, although she was not like him intellectually, she too lived mostly within her own mind; he wanted to see everything about her.

Molly blushed and moved to sit next to him so she would be a little more comfortable. she watched as he took her other hand and did the same to it as he had done to the other one. she wondered what he was thinking.  
‘Probably analyzing me,’ she thought contentedly.

‘Molly-Kins works hard,’ Moriarty thought with a small grin. ‘A few though through her gloves...she work longer than she should. Probably for Sherlock...’

He leaned forward and kissed her. A moment later his phone buzzed to life in his pocket.

Molly heard the buzz of his mobile and felt him pull away. He pulled out the phone, rolled his eyes dramatically, and answered the call, walking out of the room saying, “what,” with murderous annoyance.

Molly sighed and set her hands on the keys of the piano. She heard the front door open and close a moment later and she knew Jim could be home anytime within a couple of minutes to a few weeks.

She laid her head on her hands before she felt her phone buzz.  
She quickly looked at the text she’d just received:

Two days, Molly-wog.-M

Molly smiled; he’d never given her a time frame of his return before.  
Her phone buzzed again.

Where are you?-SH

Molly’s smile disappeared. She’d gotten this exact text from Sherlock regularly and each time she’d ignored him, much as it exhausted her willpower to do so. But for some reason, this time Sherlock was using a different number to text her from.

Please.-SH

This startled her her but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was probably trying to manipulate her again.  
There were no other attempts for the rest of the day.

Molly laid in bed, trying not to let her mind focus on anything.

Her mobile buzzed beside her and for a while, she didn’t move to check it.  
Just as she began to doze off she received another message.

Molly rolled her eyes and snatched up the phone checking the messages she’d received.  
They were both from John.

I can’t blame the way you feel about him, you can’t help it. -JW

Molly sighed and read the next one.

How are you doing?-JW

Molly was struck. She was expecting a message about what his opinion was and how he couldn’t believe how she could do such a thing. But instead, he wanted to know if she was alright.  
She couldn’t help but reply.

Fine.-JW

Thank god you’re alive!-JW

Molly smiled, at a loss for what to say. Nothing happened for a long minute.  
Then the mobile buzzed again. Almost frantically, Molly opened the message; she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed John’s company.

Sherlock hasn’t slept in a couple of days.-JW

What case is he on?-Hooper

‘Probably someone Jim’s killed...’ she thought.

He’s looking for you.-JW

Molly almost stopped breathing in surprise.

Why?-Hooper

What do you mean ‘why?’ You don’t understand how much you mean to him.-JW

I don’t count.-Hooper

Molly replied bitterly.

Yes you do.-SH

Molly rolled her eyes again and almost found herself laughing in bitter amusement. 

Telling John to persuade me?-Hooper

Reading over his shoulder.-SH

“Of course,” Molly mumbled.

I’ve never counted before. What’s changed?-Hooper

You have always counted.-SH

Is he texting you?-JW

Yes.-Hooper

She replied to John but she didn’t know how to respond to Sherlock. 

He’s seriously been running himself down looking for you.-JW

Molly set the phone down and she couldn’t help a few tears falling down her cheeks. She knew that what she was doing was wrong, utterly and completely.

The mobile buzzed once, was still for a few moments,, then buzzed a second time. Molly wiped her eyes and picked up the phone to see two messages from John.  
She opened the one that had been sent first.

Tell us where you are. Please let us take you home.-JW

Quickly she opened the next message.

Got to run, another case.-JW

It was almost as if Molly heart moved her hand for her, having a truth and a want that her mind had not acknowledged yet, typing and sending a message to the number Sherlock had been using:

I’ll help.-Hooper

‘What am I going to do?’ Molly thought, beginning to panic while staring at her phone.  
Then she got an idea.

\--------

Moriarty leaned against the wall of the old building he stood in, letting out a long sigh.  
Because he had dropped his phone earlier, he had to turn it back on; technology made him furious sometimes. He shoved the mobile into his pocket.

“Booooring…” he mumbled.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Sherlock’s voice immediately brought a smile to Jim’s face.

“Daddy’s happy to see you again,” he gave the detective a once over. “You look awful. Have you been sticking that awfully long nose of yours in my business?”

“Why lead me here?” Sherlock ignored him. Jim felt his phone buzz in his pocket but he held his hand back from checking his messages.

Sherlock looked exhausted, slightly hunched forward, dark rings under his eyes, and a very slight huskiness of tone in his voice.  
Jim noticed the desperation in the detective’s aspect and he grinned; something was wearing him down and chances were, he was on a frantic hunt for Miss Hooper.

Jim shrugged. “I wanted to see how far you’d gotten,” he smiled widely. “And how far behind you are. Which is,” Jim grimaced dramatically. “Quite far back. Disappointingly far, Sherlock. I think you’re losing your touch.”

The criminal leaned off the wall and slowly walked towards Sherlock.  
“There is more motive than just wanting to talk,” Sherlock began studying his enemy.  
“Don’t analyze me, Sherly. It makes me feel so...Ordinary.” Jim said sarcastically. “But you’re right, I wanted to see your face when I told you how much I enjoy fucking Molly~”

There. He saw Sherlock involuntarily wince slightly. He couldn’t help a smile.  
“It’s not an advantage to care, not about people,” Jim continued.  
“Oh don’t bore me,” Sherlock almost spat indignantly. “You sound like Mycroft.”

Jim laughed quietly.

“That being true,” Sherlock went on. “I’m curious as to how you would justify your relationship with Molly.”

“I needed a new toy, I get so terribly bored. I wanted a live one this time,” Moriarty felt his mobile buzz again and struggled not to let his curiosity get the best of him. “Besides, she was more than willing and I just love to watch you squirm~” his voice floated into a high tenor for a moment as he spoke, giving his listener more insight to his insanity. “I couldn’t have done it without your help...well, I could have but you made it so much easier.”

His mobile buzzed exactly fourteen more times, raising Moriarty’s annoyance level dangerously high.  
Sherlock squinted slightly at the criminal.

“You can get that if you like,” he said, sounding a little bit amused.  
Jim patted the mobile in his pocket absently as his mind worked fast.  
“And you can tell your military dog to stand down,” Jim retorted. “I’m not here to hurt anyone yet, least of all you.”  
Sherlock’s brow furrowed and Moriarty rolled his eyes.

“If I hurt you I’ll have to give you a handicap. No, I need you healthy for my new game--”  
“I don’t want to play anymore games,” Sherlock interrupted, looking annoyed.  
“DON’T INTERRUPT ME!” Moriarty suddenly lashed out in an explosion of anger, his voice echoing in the almost empty room.  
There was silence for a moment.

“If you upset daddy, he might have to punish you. What if I was to take away your favorite toy?” Jim said.  
At the sound of footsteps, Sherlock looked up at the rafter where John was now standing, holding a gun and bearing a red sniper’s dot on his chest.

“Oh did I forget to tell you? I brought my doggy too~” Jim smirked. John nervously looked from the sniper laser to Sherlock, dropping his gun.  
“Aldersgate Street, tomorrow, 11 o'clock sharp. If you win, you can have Molly.” Jim found himself having to force out his plan, as if it wasn’t what he wanted anymore; indignantly he imagined Molly being handed over to his enemy. It made him angry.

“And if he loses?” John asked while Sherlock looked contemplative, steepling his hands under his chin. “What happens then?”  
Jim smiled and backed out of the room slowly. 

“It’s a surprise~” he bowed dramatically. “Adieu.”  
Moriarty then left, pulling out his mobile, no longer able to wait. He had received 16 messages, some from Molly and some from John.

Getting into his car outside, he read through the messages and noticed that some of Molly’s replies were not to John. Someone else was texting her, using a number not recorded in her contacts; therefore, he didn’t know who they were.

“She’s decided to play the game too,” he mumbled quietly. “Fuck.”  
He slumped over, lying on the back seats on his back. Sebastian began driving off silently.  
Inside he couldn’t help but feel worry and a bit of anxiety and it annoyed him to no end. Why did Molly give him such troublesome emotions? And why hadn’t he killed her and set himself free already? He had a feeling this was how Sherlock felt about John Watson...well, minus the whole killing thing.

His hatred for his growing emotions for Molly was lessening every day and to his surprise he felt stronger for it. What irked him was the possibility that he would be weakened if anything happened to her, that his emotions had begun to overcome him.  
If she ever left him, who knows what he would do?

“Sebastian,” Jim sighed, throwing his phone on the ground spitefully. “Take me home.”  
“Sure,” Sebastian replied, making a turn and driving in the desired direction.

Jim stared at the ceiling of the car, feeling slightly ridiculous and unprofessional as he realized the question that laid before him: which is more important? Molly or Sherlock?  
and for the first time, Moriarty feared the answer to a most interesting question.

\--------

Molly’s eyes darted towards the door of the bedroom, setting down her book as she heard the front door open and close faintly. Frozen with fear at the sound of an uninvited visitor, Molly sat motionless on the bed, hardly breathing for fear she’d be heard.

The visitor made no sound and a moment later, Molly found herself rolling quietly over and slowly opening her end table drawer and withdrawing the gun that Jim had given her.  
With her fingers on the trigger and the safety, she aimed at the door, hearing the visitor’s quiet footsteps come nearer and nearer to the bedroom.

The door opened and Molly flipped off the safety and daring to say, “H-Hello?”  
There was no answer and the visitor walked in.  
It was Jim.

Molly heaved a shaky sigh of relief and watched as Jim walked over to her and gently took the gun, switching the safety back on before setting it on the bed.  
‘He doesn’t look like himself...’ Molly thought, studying him cautiously.

His eyes were darker and clouded, his cheeks were flushed from the cold outside, and what unsettled Molly most was that he almost looked kind and gentle.

His vest was undone and he no longer wore his tie, his hair was a bit tousled and his brow was furrowed in deep thought. Then he blinked and in his eyes she could see warmness towards her.

“Jim?” Molly managed to whisper. “What’s wrong?”  
She gently cupped his warm face with her little hands and Moriarty closed his eyes, grabbing onto one of her wrists.

“Little Miss Hooper…” he sighed with a mix of spite and adoration. “How can I love you so much?” He opened his big and darkened eyes and gave her a look she couldn’t understand.  
The he leaned forward and rested his head on her shoulder.

Molly’s eyes widened; this was the most submissive she’d ever seen the psychopath.  
She wrapped an arm around him.

“I love you.” she breathed.  
Jim looked up and pulled her close like a child would to one of his favorite belongings and kissed her.  
Passions rose and the two took to lovers’ embraces, diving into ecstasy, one heart confused and the other soured with guilt.

\--------

Jim stared at the ceiling, light pouring in where it could where the curtains didn’t cover the windows.  
All that ran through his head was “Molly or Sherlock?” over and over again.

Sighing quietly, he rolled out of bed, careful not to wake Molly, and he walked to the kitchen for water. Taking a glass from the cabinet, he filled it in the sink, But just before his lips touched the glass’ edge, a smell, very faint but existent, wafted thinly up.

“Nightshade?” he mumbled quietly, studying the edge confusedly to find a very very faint shade of purple.  
The longer he stared at the glass the more purple he saw all over until he discovered the glass was laced with Nightshade.  
Setting the glass down on the counter absently, he grabbed glass after glass after glass from the cabinet, finding each one to be laced with the same deadly berry’s juice.

Jim’s confusion drove him to think on who would have the gall to do something as petty as poisoning him; he didn’t fear death but he found the attempt very annoying.

The longer he thought, the closer he got to discovering the culprit until he blinked slowly and yawned.  
His brow furrowed and he walked back into the bedroom, to Molly’s side of the bed.  
Very carefully, he took Molly’s hands and looked at her fingertips and fingernails.  
Nothing.

Quietly he then walked to every trash can he could find until he found what he was looking for in the dumpster behind the building: purple stained gloves.  
Looking closely, there was a little piece of hair stuck onto it; it was, however, too small to identify.

Once again, his mind whirring through possibilities, he made his way back to the bedroom.  
He carefully inspected Molly’s hair.  
Jim sighed when he found some purple streaked strands and sat down, leaning against the wall.

Molly was trying to kill him, or at least sedate him, judging by the amount of Nightshade she’d used. Suddenly the text messages made sense and he felt a little embarrassed that it would take him this long to figure out that Sherlock had been using a new number to persuade the little coroner.

Angrily, Jim stalked out into the kitchen and, grabbing every Nightshade laced object he could, began throwing them to the ground in his fury.

Glass shattered against walls, silverware clanged onto the wooden floor; even the tea kettle wasn’t spared.

He roared as he threw a plate on the ground and Molly came running in, looking terrified and confused.

“Jim?! What are you doing?!” Molly cried out.  
“Trying to kill me, Molly?” Moriarty smiled sourly. “Poison me with Nightshade?!”  
He walked towards her, the thrill of a predator stalking his prey filling his chest as he watched her back frightenedly into the wall behind her.

Molly tried her best to look indignant.  
“Sedate you. That what I tried to do.” she said very calmly. Jim could almost see relief lift off of her as she let go of her secret; another thing he didn’t know about her: lying tried her conscience more than most.

“You can’t let go of Sherlock,” Jim’s voice sang all over the place, sounding discombobulated.  
Tears began to fall from his eyes, unwillingly.

“I LOVE YOU AND I HATE YOU SO MUCH!” he set his hands on her shoulders, a crazed look on his tear-stricken face, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

He suddenly relaxed and rested his forehead on hers.  
“Too far,” he whispered shakily, closing his eyes, his voice surreal. “You’re too far on the side of the Angels…” He opened his eyes and kissed her forehead and saw she was crying, silently.

“I really do love you. Jim.” Molly managed to breathe.  
A grin twisted its way onto Moriarty’s face and his grip on her shoulders tightened; he knew she was telling the truth; that was something he wish he didn’t know.

“But a Demon can’t love an Angel,” he said, shaking his head. “No...he just can’t…” he felt her trembling and while his heart screamed to let her go, his mind and emotions wouldn’t let him. He was man without a conscience, by the very definition of a psychopath, and that made every decision of his fatal.

“Sherlock’s little Angel...so timid and ordinary…” Moriarty kissed her for a moment and then embraced her tightly.  
“Ordinary…” he breathed. “Don’t worry, I’ll save you,” he whispered, tears still falling. “I’ll take you away from those nasty Angels.”  
He pulled back and smiled at her, a smile filled with too many emotions all mashed up together.

His hands grabbed her neck and his eyes widened almost in surprise.

The next thing Molly Hooper heard was the snap of her own neck.

[If you want the original ending I intended for this story, go to the chapter called “Red, Like Roses.” If you want the alternate ending, go to the chapter called “And the Winner is…”  
Thanks for being great readers!]


	11. Red, like roses (Original Ending)

Moriarty felt Molly’s neck snap in his hands and he caught her limp body.   
For a moment, he couldn’t understand what had just happened and he tried to stand her up. When she fell limply into his arms again, he realized that she was dead, and that he had killed her.

He slumped to his knees and held her tightly against him. His eyes were opened wide and he panted quietly from his adrenaline rush; his brows furrowed together.  
Jim absently checked her pulse to find she had none. Molly Hooper was dead; her existence as a human being was no more.

He looked down at her face. It was pale and her eyes were clouded over, her mouth slightly ajar.

“So beautiful…” he breathed and caressed her hair. “I’ve saved you from the Angels.”  
Tears began to fall again and he felt darkly triumphant; the tears rolled off his chin and fell onto Molly’s face.

A psychopath, by definition, is unable to feel remorse; so why was he crying?  
Moriarty could feel the loss of Molly and it made the hollow man even hollower, plunging him into such a thick darkness and silence within that something in his genius mind broke and he could feel the control over himself quickly slip away.

“Hush now, Molly-wog,” Jim began again, a ringing in his ears resembling a long unbroken scream. “Shh...Stop screaming...I’ll make you red, like a beautiful rose…” he clutched his head and shut his eyes. “Just...stop...screaming!”

\--------

Sherlock and John cautiously walked up to the door of Moriarty’s apartment. The consulting criminal hadn’t showed up for the “game” but Sebastian had, by instruction, given the detective and the doctor directions to Moriarty’s residence.

John held his gun at the ready, pointing it down, while Sherlock slowly opened the door.  
They stepped inside a quiet and simple livingroom. Not a sound could be heard for several moments. Sherlock ventured forward.

“Molly?” he called out.  
The only reply was a stifled sob.

Sherlock and John ran towards the sound, which had come from the dining room, and when they arrived, they were met by a horrific scene.

Molly had been strung up, hanging from the ceiling as blood trickled from cuts in her heels, her wrists, and her neck.  
Every wall, the floor, and Molly herself, were decorated with intricately painted roses, roses painted with Molly Hooper’s blood.

Moriarty himself sat in the corner at the end of the dining room, facing his visitors. His eyes were red from his constant tears, he breathed shallowly, and his body was spotted and smeared with Molly’s blood.

John couldn’t moved and dropped his gun involuntarily. Sherlock found that he couldn’t think for a moment. The beautiful paintings of roses swirled around Molly’s violated body in his imagination. 

Then the wheels started turning again and he slowly looked towards Moriarty, his mind no longer longing for the thrill of the games that Moriarty dotingly threw at him. All he felt was cold and calculated hatred and a new sure sense of just how evil the shaking man across from his was.

Sherlock took a step forward and opened his mouth to speak.   
Suddenly a shot rang out and John fell to the ground.  
Moriarty let out a maniacal laugh, one that chilled Sherlock to the bone.  
“JOHN!” the detective slipped on a small pool of blood, fell to his knees, and checked John for the bullet wound.   
Blood gushed from John’s arm.  
“Oh, look at that. Your doggie is hurt,” Moriarty taunted mockingly.   
Sherlock turned towards the psychopath.

“What you did to Molly--”  
“I SAVED her from the ANGELS!” Moriarty interrupted, suddenly crying again. “She was going to kiiiiill me to please you.” He, just as abruptly, grew calm and set the gun against the side of his head.

“Time to go home,” he said absently, staring off into the distance. “Staying alive is so booooring.” 

Moriarty then looked at Sherlock with a peculiar stare. John huffed in pain on the floor, trying to stifle his curses.

Moriarty pointed the gun at Sherlock and a grin twisted onto his face.

“I can’t play this game any longer,” he said with that trademark surreal tenor. “I can’t let you continue without me…”

Another shot rang out and Moriarty dropped his gun, choking and sputtering blood, grasping at his chest.  
Sherlock looked down to see that John had shot the criminal before he fell onto his back.

Moriarty gasped desperately for air. The bullet had gone through a lung.   
Sherlock walked to the criminal and stared down at him coldly.  
Moriarty continued to choke, looking confused, and leftover tears fell down his cheeks.

“I win,” Sherlock said. Moriarty leaned limply against the wall and smiled, his teeth covered in blood.  
“No you don’t,” he coughed, spattering blood on Sherlock’s shoes.

“Watson does.”

A last choke, a gush of blood out of Moriarty’s mouth, and the consulting criminal was dead. His last breathed whistled out of his punctured lung and his dark eyes clouded over.

Sherlock turned away, looked at Molly’s hanging body, fell to his knees, and for the first time in a long sum of years, he cried.

 

Fin.  
(Original Ending)


	12. And The Winner Is...

Moriarty caught Molly’s now limp body and moved the hair out of her face to gaze at her clouding eyes. She was still alive but her broken neck was preventing her from breathing normally; Jim quickly assessed that one of her broken bones was jutting into her windpipe, cutting off a lot of air from there.

For a long ten seconds he stared at her, felt her trembling body in his arms, watched at her face went from white, to gray, to having a hue of blue…

Moriarty sighed and expertly pushed the jutting bone away from her windpipe, allowing her to convulse from the pain and take in a gasp of air successfully.

He glared through his drying tears and let her body fall to the ground; she whimpered as she hit the ground but couldn’t move. She was so weak, so ordinary, and so BORING. But even with all that, Moriarty couldn’t bring himself to let her die; her loss would make him feel too empty.  
He would have to be content with having broken her neck.

“Can you move, Molly?” he asked curiously, slumping to his knees.  
Her reply came out choked and only slightly resembled a “no.”  
Jim moved her head so she could breathe for efficiently.

“I think you’re paralyzed from the waist down,” he explained, his mind betraying him. He was filled with a sudden rage, infuriated at the thought that someone dared to hurt her, HIS MOLLY; it took another long couple of moments for him to remember that he himself had been the one to break her neck.

“That was...my fault…” he breathed in realization.  
Molly laid on the floor, trembling as much as she was able, feeling tears streak her face, as she watched the criminal who seemed to have gone ‘round the bend a bit further than usual, more in and out of his already only sometimes sanity. Worry slowed her mind and she felt utterly helpless.

The realization of his part in the whole thing seemed to thicken Jim's mind for the first time in his life. He did it; he broke her neck. He tried to kill her. He did.   
"Shut up," he breathed weakly. "SHUT UP!"  
He slammed his hands on the floor. A piece of broken glass jutted into the side of one of his fists and he cursed aloud, snatching it to himself. After pulling out the shard of glass, he licked the blood from his wound and began to laugh quietly; at that moment, the sight of blood had reminded him of the game.

A psychopath cannot feel remorse, but something in the criminal felt responsibility for what had happened and that responsibility, perhaps for the first time, was not accompanied by pride or indifference. He almost felt disgusted.

And Jim no longer saw the need to win the game, only to show up, to give Molly to his favorite wind-up detective for her safety, and to devise a new surprise.

Change of plans. The game is about to start.-M

He laid down his mobile and scooped Molly up as if she weighed nothing.  
"Don't worry," Jim said soothingly. "It'll all be over soon."  
He walked out of the apartment, trying to ignore the trembling of his own limbs.

\--------

Sherlock and John walked onto Aldersgate street and looked around. Nothing seemed out of order but the both of them knew that just about anything they could imagine might just happen at any moment.

It was only an hour and a half before they were originally supposed to meet with the serial killer and it didn't look like he'd shown up yet. A few houses surrounded them and a local grocers as well; other than that it was empty.

Suddenly Sherlock's mobile sounded the alert for a text message. He snatched the phone out if his pocket and read the message intently. After a few moments he shoved it back into his pocket.

"What was that, then?" John asked eagerly.  
"A riddle," Sherlock explained thoughtfully. "It has no hinges, key, or a lock, yet golden treasures hide inside."  
"...eggs?" John suggested.  
"Yes, brilliant, but I've already figured out that bit," Sherlock said sarcastically. "But why did he send it..."

Sherlock's phone went off again and as soon as he read the message, his eyes darted towards the grocers and he turned to John.   
"Go into the grocers and go into the refrigerator where they keep the eggs. That's where you'll find Molly."

John immediately ran towards the grocers and Sherlock turned back the way he had been facing to see Moriarty standing before him, looking like a complete mess.  
His open vest, his uncouth hair, and his crazed smile, which almost looked sad, sent a shiver of uncertainty down Sherlock's back. The criminal was holding a gun at his side.

"So Sherlock," Moriarty began. He clutched the gun hard and tried to keep his body from shaking; he was excited for the end of his game. "It's been fun watching you squirm. But the game is over..."   
"No it's not," Sherlock said doubtfully.

Moriarty saw no other way I end the game and he set the gun against his head.  
Sherlock knew this was no bluff.  
"What do you hope to gain from this?" Sherlock asked, hoping the criminal wouldn't do himself in without answering.  
Time seemed to be moving slower and Moriarty looked at the detective and smiled, but this time the smile held no malice or bitterness in it. 

"Some peace and quiet maybe," Jim said and after a moment he have a little hesitant wave. Sherlock looked on, confused.  
"Yeah...that's not gonna happen." Moriarty laughed, a mocking grin taking the other ones place. 

All at once, John came running out, holding Molly. Sherlock turned at the sound of John's voice and at that moment, a gunshot rang out and Moriarty fell to the ground dead, a pool of blood quickly trickling out of his head.

Sherlock's ears rang and he ran to John, barely hearing the doctor say, "she's still alive!" An something about a hospital. Molly’s shoulders shook with cold and her pale face was pained; Sherlock was the only one that noticed that anything below her waist was unresponsive.   
But she was alive, and the devil was dead.

Fin  
(Alternate Ending)


End file.
